


Shades Pulled Shut

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mentioned Claudia Stilinski - Freeform, Mentioned Jealousy, Mentioned Paige, Pre-Hale Fire, Pre-Relationship, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:51:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: Derek was there when Stiles' mom died.Now it's Stiles' turn to be there for Derek.





	Shades Pulled Shut

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't sure if there are any fics about childhood friends taking care of each other with a focus on Paige's death, but I got the idea for it, so. 
> 
> Have kinda au, because childhood friends and closer age difference (I totally fucked up my timeline of how I organize the events but whatever), healing fic.

          Standing at the top of the stairs and trying not to be obvious in his attempt to stare into Derek’s room, Stiles waits. For werewolves who can hear each other whisper, Derek and his mom aren’t being all that quiet. Talia seems to be trying to be, but apparently Derek just can’t find it in himself to give a crap.

 

          “I don’t _care_ , mom! I don’t want to see _anyone_ , tell him to go away!”

 

          Well, boo-freaking-hoo. When Stiles’ mom died and he didn’t want anyone over, that didn’t matter, did it? No, Derek still shoved his furry butt into Stiles’ space and forced them to spend time together. He talked when Stiles couldn’t open his mouth without a sob or dead air coming out, and he just talked and talked and talked as he held Stiles’ hands. It wasn’t like when they hung out together before, but it was Derek’s way of telling Stiles that he had someone – that even if his world was falling apart, Derek would still be there, after all the dust settled, to help him put it back together.

 

          It’s just what family does. Derek got it then, and even if he’s being a little hurt-blind, he should be able to be pick up on what’s going on here, soon enough.

 

          Having had enough, Stiles pushes his way into Derek’s room, not once pausing despite the sudden shift in the air. Talia freezes, tenses, and gives him a slightly surprised look that was probably an aborted attempt at telling him _I told you to wait out in the hall_. Derek just looks… angry. That’s expected, but it doesn’t cause Stiles’ determination to waver in the slightest.

 

          He gets to the bed and doesn’t even let a beat pass before he’s yanking the blankets upwards and tucking himself into, right up against Derek’s body. He can feel the warmth through his bedclothes and Stiles’ jeans and shirt, and it’s like a beacon, calling him closer. He snuggles in close, not even looking at Derek, and pulls the blanket up far enough up his face that only his eyes are peaking out. He turns them onto Talia, who’s expression is melting into light fondness. She doesn’t say a word, just mouths _thank you_ , and combs a hand over Stiles’ hair, a motherly gesture of affection that he is so familiar with that it causes his eyes to close in contentment, and leaves.

 

          Once the door is shut behind her, Stiles flips over and levels a glance at Derek, who’s staring at him, looking as if he isn’t sure to be upset or confused. Stiles doesn’t let him decide, and instead pushes at his shoulder, demanding, “Scoot over.”

 

          Derek, astonishingly, does with only a moment of hesitation, and even let’s Stiles push him flat onto the bed. In fact, all Derek does is slowly wrap his arms around Stiles’ middle, another familiar action, when Stiles has finally settled with most of his weight lying across Derek’s chest and stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

          They don’t talk a lot during these moments. Stiles didn’t think that was what Derek needed, really. Instead, they cuddle and often times nap. When Derek starts to tense up, getting a little too into his head, Stiles puts on a movie and leaves the sound on, forcing him to take his attention away from it.

 

          They’ll talk when Derek’s ready.

 

* * *

 

 

          “I’m a murderer,” Derek whispers once, out of the blue. Stiles, who was messing around with Derek’s hair, seeing if it was long enough to braid yet, leans back to look him in the eyes. He tries his best to not let any emotion, not even confusion, slide over his face, and focuses on thinking as neutrally as he can.

 

          There’s something warring in Derek’s eyes, all of it dark, unhappy, nothing Stiles wants to see, nothing he wants him to feel. He shakes his head and uses his grip on Derek’s hair to gently tilt him into staring back at Stiles. “I doubt it,” he tells him, especially because of the uncertainty he sees there, but he knows he’d still say it even if it was surety. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

 

          He knows that sometimes people do things that others wouldn’t expect from them, but that’s just something he felt Derek needed to hear. Stiles doesn’t know what quite went down, but he’s sure it isn’t _that_. Derek looks like he knows this too and is about to try and attempt to dispute Stiles’ words, but Stiles cuts him off with another shake of his head.

 

          “Tomorrow,” Stiles tells him, and smooths down his hair, resting his fingers over it. “Tell me about it tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

 

          Hours later, that same day, Derek also says, “Paige is dead.” Stiles’ throat tightens, for many wildly different reasons. The words _dead, death, deceased, gone, gone, gone_ , still haunt him, and he’s unable to ever stop his sensitive bodily reactions to them. But Paige… she was a sweet girl – always seemed so much older, so much smarter. Stiles never minded her, not on her own. She’d been around Derek a little more lately (never _stealing_ him, even Stiles could tell she didn’t want to disrespect anyone by taking away their time with Derek), since they’d been… dating. But sometimes… when Stiles saw them together, side by side, or Derek’s hand on her back or arm, or worse, face, Stiles’ gut would twist up until he averted his eyes, and sometimes it was still bad until he left and got his mind off of it.

 

          But he never wanted her dead. At most, he wanted her just _away_ and a few times, he’d vindictively wanted her hurt, but he always felt bad about those fantasies later, even if he never told anyone about them. (He isn’t sure why he doesn’t feel bad about the fact that he only thought them _too much_ when he thought about Derek’s reactions to seeing her in pain.)

 

          When Stiles flips over to see him, his face, Derek, who’d apparently been waiting on him, let’s his eyes glow up. But this time, instead of gold, they’re this bright, clear blue. It reminds him of a neon light for a sign of some bar, something unnatural and eye-catching, but pretty, nonetheless. There’s something broken about them, too, that goes farther than just Derek’s emotional state. There are slices darker than the rest, splitting up the perfect torus shape. Even Stiles knows what this means.

 

          _Taken the life of an innocent. These wolves are untrusted, rarely let into new packs, and are never the second hands or messengers of whatever pack they are in, unless said pack means for blood._

 

          “They’re blue,” Derek tells him, and his words are thick with disgust and hatred, a sound that strikes Stiles at his core, even if they aren’t directed at himself. “I don’t… I don’t remember anything. But she’s dead and they’re blue and that can only mean one thing.”

 

          Stiles furrows his eyebrows, not really agreeing, but he knows that Derek probably won’t want to hear that. If he can’t remember, he doesn’t know what really happened, and it might not be as bad as it appears. He shakes those thoughts away and instead lifts a hand to Derek’s face, stroking soft, as soft as he can, right under Derek’s eyes. The color flickers, starting to disappear, until Stiles presses in with his cold fingers at the far corners of Derek’s eyes. Derek pauses, mouth falling open slightly, as he stares down at Stiles, but when Stiles digs in a little more with the tips of his fingers, Derek lets his eyes flare up again once more.

 

          Stiles continues to stare and stroke around them, over Derek’s eyelashes, and ghosting along his eyelids, letting them close a few times. Derek shivers once, tilting his face further into Stiles’ hand, and Stiles thinks his opinion of the new color has made itself clear, even in silence. Derek’s mouth, a little open, a little wet, drifts over the heel of Stiles’ palm, and his nose nuzzles into the roots of Stiles’ fingers, inhaling briefly.

 

          “I’ve missed your scent,” Derek says, breathes, really, and Stiles can’t help the smile that those words bring, even if he wrinkles his nose at them. Stiles coasts his other hand down Derek’s cheek and jawline, pressing in just enough to watch the skin follow the path of his fingers, wanting his scent to really sink in good. He rubs into Derek’s neck real well, appreciating the fact that he _can_ , that he is able to touch Derek’s throat, a vulnerable place, without even a flinch.

 

          Stiles lets his fingers skim under the surface of Derek’s shirt, but doesn’t bother trying to take it off, not really wanting to move to be able to do that. “I know, big guy,” he murmurs, as gently as he can, but the softness of it is ruined when he giggles at the still strange feeling of Derek’s warm tongue poking out to take a quick lick from between Stiles’ fingers.

 

          Derek smiles into the skin of Stiles’ hand and, heartbeat picking up, Stiles thinks that they can make it through this.

**Author's Note:**

> Healing other people, even though it takes a long time and lots of patience, is kind of relieving on its own.


End file.
